Anne Bronte

Poor restless dove,
I pity thee;
And when I hear thy plaintive moan,
I mourn for thy captivity,

Gloomily the clouds are sailingO'er the dimly moonlit sky;
Dolefully the wind is wailing;
Not another sound is nigh;
Only I can hear it

While on my lonely couch I lie,
I seldom feel myself alone,
For fancy fills my dreaming eye With scenes and pleasures of its own
Then I may cherish at my breast An infant's form beloved and fair,

Why should such gloomy silence reign,
And why is all the house so drear,
When neither danger, sickness, pain,
Nor death, nor want, have entered here

What though the Sun had left my sky;
To save me from
The blessed Moon arose on high,
And shone serenely there

O, let me be alone a while,
No human form is nigh
And may I sing and muse aloud,
No mortal ear is by

In all we do, and hear, and see,
Is restless Toil and Vanity
While yet the rolling earth abides,
Men come and go like ocean tides;

I have gone backward in the work, The labour has not sped,
Drowsy and dark my spirit lies, Heavy and dull as lead
How can I rouse my sinking soul From such a lethargy
How can I break these iron chains, And set my spirit free...

1 O raise those eyes to me
And smile again so joyously,
And fear not, love; it was not
Nor grief that drew these tears from me;

That summer sun, whose genial
Now cheers my drooping spirit
Must cold and distant be,
And only light our northern

Oh, they have robbed me of the
My spirit held so dear;
They will not let me hear that
My soul delights to hear

A fine and subtle spirit
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling
With more or less of power

I hoped, that with the brave and strong,
My portioned task might lie;
To toil amid the busy throng,
With purpose pure and high

How brightly glistening in the sun The woodland ivy plays
While yonder beeches from their barks Reflect his silver rays
That sun surveys a lovely scene From softly smiling skies;
And wildly through unnumbered trees The wind of winte...

Oppressed with sin and woe,
A burdened heart I bear,
Opposed by many a mighty foe:
But I will not despair

I have slept upon my couch,
But my spirit did not rest,
For the labours of the
Yet my weary soul opprest;